Silver Black Phantom Bike
by FluffyShrekGirl
Summary: I'm gonna hit the highway like a battering ram on a silver black phantom bike... tearing up the road faster than any other boy has ever gone... but I can't stop thinking of you.


Silver Black Phantom Bike

DISCLAIMER: I don't own digimon, or the song this is based off, which is Meat Loaf's 'Bat Out Of Hell' (in case you couldn't guess lol). I hope you guys enjoy this – it's a bit more serious than the fics I normally write, so I hope what I've written works well. It doesn't seem to be about anything you're familiar with almost all the way through, but if you stick with it all with become clear. I hope it's good enough to ensure you do that. Plus – credit to fairy-lou for the name Damien: genius idea!

The air ripped past the young man on the motorbike. His loosely-styled blond hair tugged fiercely backwards, as though trying to escape from the confines of the head it grew upon, a few long strands falling over his forehead. His clothes were pressed against him by the relentless wind, but his crystal-blue eyes sparkled with sheer joy.

Damien let out a whoop of happiness. It was unbelievable. Too good to be true. But he had done it. He had finally gotten out of there.

He was _free_.

Free to revel in his independence, free to roam wherever his bike took him, to be with whomever he chose…

His smile faltered briefly, but he resolutely fixed his eyes on the horizon and sped up the bike. No going back.

He reached the foot of the mountains and stopped abruptly, silencing the engine with a quick gesture.

Damien looked back along the seemingly endless road. On either side of it, desert stretched uninterrupted for miles. The sun blazed mercilessly in the sky, a ball of white fire.

If he squinted through the heat haze, he could just see a faint ribbon of smoke fluttering its way into the sky – all that remained of the previous night's fire. The town itself had long since vanished from view, too far away to see.

He hesitated for perhaps a fraction of a second, then swung his leg back over the bike, revved the engine and shot into the mountains.

This hesitation had cost him dearly. The exultation was gone from his blood, and no matter how fast he went, he could not shake the flooding, still-fresh memories.

_He pulled on his black leather gloves – the final addition to what he liked to consider his 'biker's outfit'. The TV was on quietly in the living room, and after watching a few more minutes of the report he reached down and pressed the power button. That was enough._

_Damien smiled grimly. The perfect night. The news report had shown horrific pictures – bodies ripped to shreds, blood everywhere… a bowie knife had been mentioned._

_That wasn't important. What was important was that the killer haunting this backwater town had created the perfect opportunity for him._

_His parents had gone to bed early, out of dislike for the news reports. He had the best excuse possible for remaining awake: 'the need to watch the news reports so he could feel safe in the knowledge that the police were doing everything they could'. And best of all, the streets would be deserted. Nobody was stupid enough to venture out knowing there was a serial killer on the loose._

_Well, nobody but him, anyway._

_But Damien wasn't stupid. He knew the hideous risk he was taking, and the equally hideous fate that would befall him if Lady Luck chose to look the other way tonight. Despite this knowledge, there was also the crushing realization that there was no other solution, and he knew he would have gambled tonight had there been ten murderers out there. He laughed quietly, humorlessly. Thank God there was only one._

_Soundlessly he opened the front door and stepped out into the night. His heart was beating rapidly. In spite of knowing that it had to be tonight, in his heart of hearts he was still utterly terrified that he would be the only available victim alone in the dark tonight._

_Thunder rolled ominously above his head in the gathering storm clouds. Somewhere not very far away, he could hear sirens, and smell a faint, acrid stench of smoke._

_As soon as he got far enough away from his house, he scrambled hurriedly onto his bike and fled the street. He knew he was safe on his bike, and so with great relief he turned his attention to the other urgently important thing on his mind._

_Marianne._

Damien suddenly pulled up sharply. He was dangerously close to the edge of the cliff that he had been travelling along for some time in the mountains, but he barely saw it. He put his hands to his head and moaned softly, a moan of guilt and desperation. He didn't want to see what was coming next…

_He pulled his way up the ivy on the side of the house with practiced ease and stopped by a window lit with a soft red glow. Looking inside, he saw first the lava lamp, but then he saw her. Marianne._

_A beautiful girl lay asleep in the bed. Her raven hair was fanned out across the pillow, and her chest rose and fell gently with the motion of her breathing. Damien felt his heart contract and he realized for the first time how much he loved this girl. God, he loved her._

_He shut his eyes, squeezing his eyelids together and forming a barrier against the threatening tears. He was not going to waste this, his final night here._

_He rapped quietly on the window-pane, but it seemed to be loud enough to frighten her out of her wits, because she sat bolt upright and clutched the bedclothes to her. Looking wildly around, her gaze flew to the window, and she saw him._

_Damien gave a little wave and she visibly relaxed. Getting up, she crossed to the window and opened it silently. He eased his way in through the gap, struggling to pull his leather biking boots in after him._

"_Damien, you idiot!" she whispered in exasperation. "I thought you were the serial killer! I can't believe, out of all nights, that you would choose this one to -"_

_He hugged her suddenly and fiercely, and did not let go. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm so sorry, I would never…" He trailed off, but did not stop hugging her._

_She sensed something was wrong. "Hey, it's all right, no big deal… what's wrong, what's the matter?"_

_Again he forced back the tears. "Nothing, I just… oh God, Marianne… I had to see you. I… I love you, Marianne."_

_She froze, and he pulled back. Looking down at her, he smiled a little. "Sorry, was that not the right thing to say?"_

_All of a sudden she laughed. "Don't be daffy. It was exactly the right thing to say." She buried her face in his chest, and her arms embraced him. "I love you, too. I always have."_

_He sighed softly, and began to slide her nightdress off her shoulders._

Damien frowned. Images from that night were dancing through his mind, but he could take no pleasure in them. He had been so selfish… and now he was racked with guilt. All he could think about was how she was going to feel. He knew she wouldn't think anything of him not being there when she awoke – her parents would go ballistic. But when she discovered that he had skipped town…

He groaned, knowing exactly what she would think of him. Why did it have to be this way?

He knew it didn't _have _to. He could go back. But he also knew that he couldn't bring himself to do that.

Hating himself for his cowardice, he set off again, veering around the corners with reckless abandon until he reached a long straight.

He couldn't believe what h had done. Marianne… she had loved him – he had no doubt in his mind that it would now definitely be past tense – and he had left her. The way he was feeling, he might as well have left her at the altar. How could he have been so selfish as to have –

_Shit! _Damien frantically tried to twist his handlebars as he hit a vicious curve that seemed almost to have been lying in wait for him – punishment for his unintended cruelty. He jammed both brakes in desperation, but it was far, far too late.

He flew off the bike, sailing through the air as he heard horrible clanking sounds below, knowing his bike was tumbling down the mountain, praying he wouldn't hit it when he landed… the air was buffeting him again, but this time he did not enjoy it.

Pain ripped through his body as he slammed into the ground, stones tearing at his skin, his limbs twisting at unnatural angles. Forcing his neck up, he could dimly see the smoking remains of his bike, just beginning to smoulder perilously.

He lay there for what felt like hours, staring up into a cloudless sky, the pitiless sun throbbing with hellish malice. The pain had subsided to a dull ache… though whether this was good or bad, he had no idea and no way of knowing.

A faint ringing sound reached his ears. Bloody hell, he knew he was dying; did his ears have to start ringing too?

It was somehow different, though… it was more like someone was steadily ringing a tiny bell in a ponderous, slow rhythm.

The ringing paused, and he became aware of someone standing over him. Looking upwards, he realised that night had fallen. A full moon hung low in the sky, illuminating his visitor.

Huge dark eyes looked intently down at him, framed by soft brown hair. The woman gazed at him curiously, then cocked her head, causing the bell hanging around her neck to chime quietly.

Then suddenly she was by his side, cradling his head on her lap. "You poor boy," she crooned softly, as though she were speaking to a frightened animal. "You poor, poor boy… did somebody hurt you?"

He could not reply. There was something odd about her eyes; from the moment he had seen them he had been transfixed, unable to look away, the desert mouse facing the rattlesnake. She seemed to think he was afraid, because she spoke soothingly, stroking his hair. "There… it's all going to be OK. Lacey's here. Lacey will make it all better."

She bent her face to his, seemingly to kiss him, and then stopped suddenly. She looked upwards with a haunted expression, and then said in a low voice:

"The moon is whispering. Dreadful, dreadful things. The demons are coming."

The woman raised one lacy, gloved hand, then abruptly clenched her fist. The wind around them picked up sharply, and it felt as though it was spinning around and around them – like they were in the very eye of a hurricane. All of a sudden it converged on them, and Damien's terrified cry as the spell over him broke was lost in the roaring storm.

When he regained consciousness, Damien found himself lying on a cold floor of grey stone. He tried to get up, but was instantly reminded of his accident as agony split his skull. He closed his eyes to wait for the throbbing to die down, and when he reopened them he found himself inches from the woman who called herself Lacey.

"Someone's had a nasty accident" she said in a singsong voice.

Although he was once more pinned by her gaze, he managed to stutter out half a question. "Where… where… we?"

She laughed, and her bell tinkled as though it, too, was amused.

"We're in the place where monsters are. The electronic monster's world.'

And then her face…

…it _changed._

Gone was the mischievous half-smile, the wide-eyed innocence. In its place was an unblinking, hypnotic stare – predatory, animal, and feral.

"But someone's hurt. And Lacey promised she would make it all better."

Her lips went to his neck, and for a dazed moment Damien thought that this strange woman was trying to kiss him better. Surely she understood that his injuries were fatal, that he was soon going to –

A sharp, stabbing pain suddenly shot through his neck, unlike anything he had ever felt before. First there was the sharpness, the feeling of a blade pressing into his jugular and hot life-blood spilling out… then burning, a horrific feeling that didn't stop, wouldn't stop… and then nothing. His mind was drifting… somewhere inside his survival instincts were screaming at him that the woman – Lacey – she was killing him, but that really didn't seem so bad…

And then there was the oddest feeling. There was no pain, but it felt like his chest was gradually being pulled in half, and his heart was beating faster and faster, until with a sudden intense wrench it broke straight out of his body, and flew through the air, going so fast that in a few seconds he could no longer see it. It put him in mind of a rat fleeing a sinking ship – or what was that other phrase? Ah yes – flying away like a bat out of hell.

Lacey slid a glove off, and drew one long nail across her throat. Arching her neck, she allowed some blood to spill into the gaping hole in his chest. A new wave of agony ripped through his body – the terrible sensation of the blood in his veins boiling red-hot.

At last, mercifully, he slipped once more into oblivion.

When he came to once again, the first thing he noticed was that he felt no pain. He wondered if he was actually dead, but looking around he realised he was still lying on the stone floor of what seemed on closer inspection to be the throne room of a castle. Lacey was nowhere to be seen.

As he looked down at himself, he saw that all his wounds were gone. My God… Lacey had really healed him.

Spying a full-length mirror leaning against a wall to his right, he got up shakily – still not quite believing he was all right – and walked uncertainly towards it. But as he stood before the mirror, an understanding arose within him… an understanding that only a few hours ago would have sickened him, but now he felt only a faint pride and a sense of the arrogance that comes with power – now that he was no longer human.

Because the mirror showed him nothing. The throne room appeared empty. He now knew the price he had paid to cheat death: he had traded for its living equivalent. Undeath.

Because everyone knows when strange women with unusually elongated canines bite your neck late at night and you wake up with no reflection, you have probably woken up a vampire.

Having no reflection, he had no clue what he looked like. He lifted his hands first, and saw that his old clothes were gone. In their place were intricately ornamented gloves, and – glancing down – an aristocratic suit of midnight blue with delicate gold decoration. Huge dark boots covered his feet, one adorned with a bat, the other with a grinning skull. Around his shoulders was a long black cloak that fell so that it just dusted the ground. Its interior was crimson, and the collar rose stiffly until it ended about three inches above the top of his head.

He was taller now too – he seemed to have grown almost two feet, and he had been tall in his other life: about six feet. Now he was taller than almost anyone.

He ran his hands enquiringly over his face, and was rewarded with the feel of two protruding fangs over lips that appeared to have increased in volume. Pulling a strand of hair down to eye level, he saw that it was still a golden blond colour, and he wondered briefly if his eyes were still the same icy blue.

As he was studying his new appearance he had become increasingly aware of the oppressive, deathly silence of this place, and now he strained his hearing for a sound, any sound. But there were none. A muffled panic fluttered in his stomach. Was he deaf? Was that, too, a price of immortality? He clicked his fingers hastily, and was intensely relieved to hear the snapping noise echo around the room. What then, was the cause of this peculiar soundproofing? He listened once more; and then swiftly grasped the answer. He was not breathing, and could hear no heartbeat – he was used to hearing his own breath, and the blood pounding in his ears. However, he was the walking dead now – and the dead did not breathe. And he had lost his heart the moment his red blood cells had lost their wretched war with Lacey's tainted blood.

He moved silently through the castle until he reached a large room with a curtain-covered window set into the western wall. Drawing back this curtain he obtained the prize of a stunning view of the sunset, blood-red as though a knife had been plunged into the darkening sky. The castle was so situated that he could see for miles, and surveying the landscape a hunger grew within him – a desire to possess and rule. He, Damien, would… no.

Not Damien. Damien no longer felt as if it belonged to him. His new name came directly to him from deep inside, bubbling up like black ooze from the fissure where his heart should have been.

Myotismon.

He murmured it aloud, tasting the way it rolled off his tongue, hearing it resonate in his ears. It felt _right_. It fit him the same way his new clothes did, and at that moment the boy Damien was buried and forgotten.

Myotismon watched the sun sink below the horizon, then turned and strode from the room, ready to begin his reign.

A/N: So, what do you think? I'm actually pretty pleased with the way this has turned out, but hey, that's just me. Lacey is based off Dru from Buffy, and 'the electronic monster's world' is from an old game, Pokémon Diamond, which was not Pokémon at all, but go figure.


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